'A predictable warrior, no matter how talented, will end up dead sooner than a less skilled warrior who can less easily be anticipated.'
Mark Lawrence, Red Sister
In the midst of the monumental week of the Inauguration, President Abraham Lincoln's office brimmed with an electric sense of anticipation. The delicate scrape of a quill against parchment painted the room with a rhythm of purpose as Lincoln's thoughts flowed onto the page. His curiosity sparked to life like a flint catching fire, his gaze lifting to capture the solemn expression etched upon William Tecumseh Sherman's countenance.
"What preys on your mind, William?" Lincoln's inquiry held a steadfast intensity, his eyes locked on Sherman's. "That contemplative mien doesn't befit you."
A faint tightening of William's jaw betrayed the emotions simmering beneath the surface, mirrored in the mix of worry and vexation that danced within his eyes. "Mr. President, have you been meticulously following the tumultuous events brewing in the South?"
Leaning back, Lincoln allowed his pen to hover for a breath, his expression a canvas of interest and caution. "I've been entangled in a web of responsibilities, William. If you carry a burden, unburden yourself."
A note of urgency punctuated William's voice as he delved into his concerns. "Your recent communications with the South, specifically regarding the resupply of Fort Sumter, how were they received?"
Lincoln's brows knit in contemplation. "The South is a thorny thicket, William. Diplomacy demands patience. I assume you grasp this."
A hint of disappointment shaded William's tone. "It appears that you may not fully comprehend the dire gravity of the situation."
Lincoln met William's gaze, his expression a blend of bemusement and alarm. "Clarify, please."
"You, the president I once ardently supported, have fallen short, " William asserted, a blend of remorse and conviction carrying his words. "You've underestimated the storm that brews. Our nation teeters on a precipice, akin to a dormant volcano that may awaken."
Recognition flickered in Lincoln's eyes, comprehension chasing confusion from his features. "Are you hinting at a looming conflict, William?"
"Yes, " William affirmed, his voice steady, a firm foundation amidst the uncertainty. "While we deliberate, the South readies its arsenal for war. You permitted the Star of the West incident to pass without repercussion, "
"They were mere cadets, " Lincoln interjected, a note of defensiveness in his voice.
"Cadets who now swell the ranks of a Confederate war engine, poised for combat, " William countered. "We must respond in kind."
A trace of compassion softened Lincoln's countenance, his contemplative gaze never wavering from William's determined face. "Your point is well made."
"Complacency is not an option, " William persisted. "We must marshal our own forces, brace for the inevitable. Their defiance demands our unwavering response."
Lincoln's contemplation gave way to a resolute determination. "You're absolutely right, William. The time has come for decisive action."
With the resonance of their discourse lingering in the air, an unspoken agreement forged itself between the two men. The weight of an impending conflict hung tangible, and in that shared understanding, President Lincoln grasped the urgency of the impending storm.
******
Lincoln's gaze, like the keel of a ship slicing through tumultuous waters, held steady on the world beyond the oval office window. The lines of his jaw etched a portrait of unyielding determination. News, a tempestuous wind carrying echoes of the assault on Fort Sumter, had reached his ears and kindled a fire deep within. He, the navigator of this ship of state, had charted a cautious course, striving to steer clear of the jagged reefs of war with the South. Yet, this audacious attack had shattered the fragile veneer of peace he had woven.
Turning from the window's vista, his gaze locked onto Vice President Andrew Johnson, a man whose loyalty and insights he held dear. "Each stride I've taken, " Lincoln's voice wove frustration and iron into its timbre, "has been a testament to my unwavering pledge, to keep our own brothers' blood from staining this land."
Johnson's response came swift and resolute, his words cutting through the air like a blade through mist. "But, Mr. President, you also made a vow not to surrender Fort Sumter."
A sigh, heavy with the weight of impending choices, escaped Lincoln's lips. "Major Anderson was painted into a corner. Starved of supplies, the Confederates left him no alternative. I lament to confess it, but there's but one path stretching before us: the path of war."
The shadow of conflict was no stranger to Lincoln. The vestiges of the Black Hawk War clung to his memory, vivid recollections of horrors etched indelibly. It was a stark contrast to the life he had once envisioned, a life of humble blacksmithing.
"The first shot has been fired by the Confederates, " Johnson confirmed, his voice unwavering.
"Then let it be war, " Lincoln proclaimed, his spine straightening as he leaned back, fingers intertwining in contemplation. "However, I sense you bear more tidings. What knowledge do you bring to this somber table?"
As their discussion descended into the depths of strategy and consequence, their words held an unspoken refrain: 'The Union, above all, must endure.' In the crucible of their conversation, a blueprint emerged, a plan to safeguard the principles that held the nation's heart.
Their voices echoed in the hallowed chamber, an anthem of shared purpose that transcended the confines of the oval office. Amidst the gravity of the situation, a pact was forged, a solemn vow to stand resolute, to shield the Union from the looming tempest, no matter the cost.
******
In Michael's mind, the symphony of history played out like a well-conducted orchestra, each note falling into place, a cascade of dominoes echoing through time. Just days past, Major Anderson's reluctant surrender of Fort Sumter had cast the die, setting the stage for a seismic shift in the nation's trajectory. President Lincoln's clarion call for 75, 000 volunteers reverberated like a thunderous drumbeat, a rallying cry that echoed not just across the Union, but even into the echoing halls of the secessionist states.
The landscape had transformed as though by the hand of destiny itself. Virginia, once contemplated as a path of security, had now cast its lot with the Confederacy. Richmond, its heart, beat now in alignment with the Southern cause, a mere stone's throw from Union-held Washington, D.C. Amidst this upheaval, Virginia's decision fanned the flames of change, making North Carolina, still wavering on the precipice of secession, a potential gateway out of the Confederate grip, a route of evasion from watchful eyes.
The rhythmic sounds of water slicing through the boat's path were accompanied by Tim's voice, his thoughts a reflection of the questions swirling in many minds. "President Lincoln's patience has borne fruit, it seems, " Tim mused, his words carrying the weight of consideration. "He's a man of conviction, hesitant to spill the first blood. But now, the Union is posed at a crossroads, and the question hangs in the air, what path shall we tread?"
Michael listened, an observer in this discourse, his own mind a canvas painted with layers of knowledge spanning the ages. He understood the sequence of events, the choreography of choices and consequences that history dictated. Yet, it was the granular details that remained shrouded, a tapestry woven of possibilities.
As the boat's prow cleaved the water, Michael's inner dialogue unfurled. He pondered the reaction of the northern states, how they would heed Lincoln's call and dispatch their sons southward. The script played out vividly in his mind's eye: the Baltimore episode, the turmoil of rail link mobs, the delicate equilibrium between Union forces and Maryland's wavering loyalty.
A somber realization held him, knowing the impending ripple effect. Lincoln's unyielding response, the suspension of habeas corpus, the looming specter of martial law stretching across Baltimore and beyond. The resilience of local leaders, the wrestling between state sovereignty and federal might, the ever-widening rift between conflicting ideals.
With a heavy heart, Michael embraced the human cost, the lives disrupted, the livelihoods shattered, the sacrifices made for a cause larger than self. The weight of history bore upon him, a burden he carried with a mixture of foreknowledge and hindsight. He yearned for a chance to reshape the narrative, to bend time's arrow away from the innocent caught in its flight.
Briefly, his eyes shuttered, a silent homage to lives destined for alteration, a quiet communion with life's fragility in the face of history's march. Amidst this sea of contemplation, one question reverberated, a solitary bell tolling its query: What could he, a pawn transported unwittingly through time's tapestry, do to nudge the course of destiny?
******
- April 21st, 2026, 18:30HRS -
The Home of Joseph Reeves and Adsila Reeves
In the bustling heart of their kitchen, Joseph and Adsila bore the weight of concern, three days of relentless anxiety tethering them to a void. News, cold as iron, had arrived, claiming their son, Commander Michael Reeves, lost in the crucible of action. The doorbell's chime pierced the air, drawing Mrs. Reeves from her tasks. She snatched a towel, hastily drying her hands, her fingers smudging the fabric with her agitation. The door yielded, revealing a tall figure, a specter that sent whispers of familiarity brushing against her mind's edges. Aged like fine wine, his late 60s held wisdom carved by time, clothed in a body that bore the marks of strength beneath a sun-kissed hue. His hand extended, a formal overture.
"Mrs. Reeves, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Johnathon Joseph Reeves, CEO of Reeves and Koddles. May I request a moment of your time? Be assured, the matter that brings me here is of profound consequence."
A tangle of emotions swirled within Mrs. Reeves, confusion meshing with curiosity. She nodded, a silent invitation, leading the stranger through the tapestry of familiar halls, an uncharted guest traversing the private corridors of their sanctuary. They passed the threshold of her husband's office, a quick call to Joseph marking the arrival.
"Joseph, we have a visitor. I'm taking him to your office."
Peering out from the kitchen, Joseph acknowledged the interruption, a nod exchanged before he resumed the delicate dance of comforting friends and family.
"Mr. Reeves, I must admit this is hardly an ideal moment. My son serves in the military, and we're currently grappling with his unexplained absence."
"Mrs. Reeves, that's precisely why I've come."
A suspended moment of quietude hung, Mrs. Reeves sinking into the embrace of a couch's arm, the weight of uncertainty pulling her into its grip. Questions began to weave their maze.
"Indeed, my presence here is tethered to your son's desires."
"But how can that be? He's been missing for three days. Are you implying there's news of his whereabouts?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes. However, before I offer any elucidation, there's something that you must see and read."
From the leather cocoon of his shoulder bag, Johnathon drew forth an envelope. Its weight was more than paper and ink; it carried the weight of revelation. With a gentleness that belied its significance, he passed it into her trembling hand. Her gaze lowered to the envelope, the ink spelling out the names Mr. Joseph & Mrs. Adsila Reeves, dated January 3rd, 1942. A familiar imprint of Reeves & Koddles crowned the bottom right corner, a silent testament to the confluence of fate.
Perplexed, Mrs. Reeves leaned back against the couch, her fingers carefully prying open the envelope. The paper within bore her son's unmistakable handwriting, a poignant testament to his connection. She glanced up at Johnathon, then back to the letter. The paper quivered in her grasp, and Johnathon's outstretched hand steadied it, offering a touch that bore a familiar endearment shared only between Michael and his mother.
"Take your time, 'Shimá'. Everything will become clear, " he reassured her, invoking the term of affection her son had always used.
Her voice trembled with emotion as she looked up at him. "How do you know...?"
"Read the letter, Mrs. Reeves. It holds all the answers you seek. I'll be here to guide you through this."
And so, amidst the poignant atmosphere, Mrs. Reeves unfolded the letter, her eyes tracing the familiar curves of her son's script, while Johnathon remained a steadfast presence, ready to unveil the truth that lay within the written words.
- January 3rd, 1942 -
Dear Mom, Dad
My handwriting has faltered over time, and I apologize for its decline. I understand if disbelief shrouds the words penned within this letter. The weight of its contents may seem too much to bear. Nevertheless, if the generations that have come after me have honored my wishes, I laid out countless moons ago, you might hold this letter on April 21st, 2026. Know that this solitary letter is just a fragment of a greater whole, a testament to the many others that accompany it.
Since January 16th, 1862, I diligently composed a letter each month, addressed to both you and Dad. This ritual continued without falter until, well, it seems my journey might be nearing its end. At the ripe age of 107, the specter of mortality is a constant companion. If my calculations hold true, you will have a collection of 948 letters to peruse. Within those pages, you will uncover the chronicles of my exploits, my existence, the joys of marriage, the legacy of our offspring, and the legacy of 'Reeves & Koddles, ' the company my dear friend and I painstakingly established.
Mom, do you recall the moments we shared in front of the television, captivated by advertisements featuring tanks, planes, and soldiers parading across the screen? The tagline "Keeping America Safe, then and Now, Reeves & Koddles serving America since 1865" would draw laughter from your lips as you exclaimed, "That's our family's enterprise!" Remarkably, that laughter wasn't misplaced.
Let's begin with the simple truths that bind us together. Your name, dear mother, is Adsila Reeves, a proud member of the Navajo Indian community. Dad, Joseph Reeves, serves as the Chief of Police, his dedication unwavering. As for me, I bear the heritage of both Navajo and African American descent, a testament to the rich tapestry of our family's history. You possess a birthmark tucked beneath your left underarm, a whimsical resemblance to a carrot, while Dad carries a round scar on his right buttock. He weaves tales of a gunshot wound, but we share the knowing smile that reveals the truth - he simply drifted into slumber with a lit cigar in hand, only for it to singe his skin.
For both you and Dad, the truth remains that I am missing, indeed, lost in action, yet not in the conventional sense. My absence stretches across dimensions, a twist of fate that defies the boundaries of time and space.
Should doubt still linger, I offer you a photograph as evidence, captured on January 19th, 1862, at Camp Davis in Alexandria, Virginia. I stand beside my dearest companion, Bill Koddles, both of us radiant with life. The ink on the back bears my familiar signature, a touchstone of authenticity you've known well.
Now, you must be wondering why I didn't attempt to alter my future when I had the knowledge of what awaited me in 2026. The answer, my dear parents, is simple yet profound: 'Love.' Had I averted that path, I would have missed the exquisite privilege of encountering the love of my life, Mariah. Our journey spanned 55 remarkable years, filled with shared moments and boundless affection. Our five beautiful children, who grace our lives, might have never existed, and subsequently, the generations that followed, including our cherished grandchildren and beyond. As a side note, Mom, and Dad, I now proudly claim the title of great-grandfather six times over.
While I am not privy to who exactly accompanies you as you read these words, I want you to grasp the enormity of our family's embrace. Our kinship is vast, their hearts intertwined with yours. It is paramount that you understand: my life, though long, has been an epitome of joy and fulfillment, devoid of any lingering regrets. This journey was always destined to unfold exactly as it has, a tapestry woven with the threads of love and purpose.
For your future Mom, Dad, this was always supposed to be my past.
I have loved you and I have missed you both every single day.
Your Ever Adoring Son
Michael Reeves,